My Forbidden Royal Fling by Clare Connelly

CHAPTER TEN

DAWNLIGHTSHIFTS across the bed and I reach for Santiago instinctively, my fingertips brushing the sheets in search of him. But he’s not there, of course. I have no concept of what time he left, or if he tried to wake me to say goodbye, I only feel a sense of incompleteness that he’s not here.

It jolts me awake, so I stare at the view revealed by my window of the sun cresting over the city, and the glistening ocean, and wonder at how he’s become so important to me in such a short space of time. What happened to a secret, sexy fling? A bit of fun before I go home and pick up the mantle of my responsibilities, finally becoming Queen of Marlsdoven, and all that entails?

Except he is fun, too, even as I recognise he’s become something...more...something difficult to characterise. I smile as I shower, remembering the night we shared, the way he kissed me, touched me so reverently, as though he were worshipping me...as though I completed him. Of course I don’t—that’s just me trying to make sense of such an intimate physical act, of the way it feels when we’re together. So right.

A frown is on my face as I get ready, choosing a sunny dress and sandals for my last day in Barcelona. The thought is at the edge of my mind all day, an awareness of time racing towards a finish line I no longer want to reach. What if I were to extend my trip?

Except I can’t. There’s a state dinner tomorrow night. That’s the reason I booked my visit for these dates. I can’t miss it. Not even for this.

No, I have to leave as originally planned, and then that will be the end of this.

It’s late in the afternoon when my phone buzzes.

Are you free for dinner?

I roll my eyes, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth.

Who with?

Funny! I’ll be back in Barcelona around six p.m. Okay?

My heart notches up a gear. Okay? It’s better than okay. It’s at least two hours earlier than I had expected him for dinner.

Sure. See you then.

He arrives five minutes early, carrying a large brown paper bag, and my heart races at the sight of him. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearm tattoos. His skin is a golden brown, his hair pushed back from his face so the intensity of his eyes is all the more obvious. My nerves go into overdrive.

He kisses me on the cheek and my pulse throbs; it’s such a normal gesture, as if we’re two people who are dating, as though this isn’t the last night we’ll see each other. I look away, blinking rapidly to clear the thought. This isn’t the time to think about that.

‘What’s in the bag?’ I ask, lifting up to peek in the top.

‘Dinner.’ He lowers it to reveal a bushy green celery top and some bulbs of garlic. ‘Or it soon will be.’

My brows lift in surprise. ‘You’re cooking?’

He sends me a sardonic look. ‘That surprises you?’

‘Well, obviously!’ I laugh. ‘I don’t think I can picture you in an apron.’

‘I cook shirtless.’ Even though it’s obviously a joke, my breath bursts out of my lungs.

He doesn’t cook shirtless, but he cooks well, as though he’s often done. I watch, mesmerised, sipping wine and making conversation which, he’s informed me, is my job for the evening. I don’t drink much, though, just a few small sips, because I want to remember every detail just as it happened without any filter over the top.

When I take a bite of the paella he makes, my lips part on a moan of appreciation. ‘This is amazing.’ Saffron, olives and tomato all combine to give the dish a richness that is full-bodied yet not overpowering.

He dips his head. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘How did you learn to make this?’

‘It’s not rocket science.’

‘I just presumed you’re someone who eats out every night. I had no idea you were secretly a culinary whiz.’

He grins as he lifts a fork to his mouth. ‘Paella is easy.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ I take another bite, closing my eyes as the flavours run through me. ‘How did you learn?’

‘Not from my mother,’ he quips with a half-smile.

Sympathy stirs through me.

‘My first apartment was just above a market. I used to walk past in the evenings and see the tables groaning with fresh produce—seafood, meat, vegetables, cheeses. I began to experiment. I would try to recreate meals I’d eaten at restaurants—most were deceptively simple—and I found I enjoyed it.’

‘Like you do wine making,’ I say, lifting the glass.

‘Precisamente. It’s a pleasure to create something exactly to your taste, to experiment until you have it just right.’

I nod thoughtfully.

‘Do you cook?’

I grimace. ‘No. I can’t even make toast.’

He laughs, a rich sound that makes my stomach loop.

‘You should learn,’ he says after a beat. ‘I think you’d enjoy it.’

‘Oh? Why is that?’

He reaches across the table, lacing our fingers together. ‘Cooking is an act of meditation and control. It’s very satisfying. Besides, you need hobbies.’ He winks then, but my heart lurches. Santiago is the first person in my life to see me as a woman, to want to encourage me to be more than my title and expectations. His ability to see many facets of my being is addictive and comforting. I feel fully formed when I’m with him, more human than royal, just an ordinary woman with the potential to be and do anything I wish.

I don’t want the night to end.

I don’t want to leave here.

And yet I know I must. Even without my father’s voice and expectations constantly guiding my decision-making process, I understand what’s expected of me.

I attempt to smile, pulling my hand away, and focus on the view beyond us. The waves roll towards the shore, towards this great, ancient city, just as they always have done. They’ll continue rolling tomorrow, and the next day, when I’m no longer here to see them, just as Santiago will continue with his life once I’m gone.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same, though.

‘What time is your flight?’

His finger traces invisible patterns over my bare flesh, his touch possessive and natural, as though he has every right to touch me whenever and however he wishes; as though my body belongs to him, and his to me. Despite my wish for time to stand still, my last day has arrived.

‘Eleven.’

His finger pauses in its progress for a moment before re-starting the lazy exploration, charting across my stomach, towards my hip then back to circle my belly button. ‘So early.’

‘I have a state dinner at the palace tonight.’ It was the constraint I’d had to work around when booking this trip. All my other engagements had been easy to cancel, but not this one.

‘Back to being a princess?’

‘I never really stopped,’ I say with a lift of my shoulder.

‘Yes, you did. For these last few days, you’ve simply been Freja.’

After my parents died, my life became the furthest from private it’s ever been. My country was obsessed with how I was coping and, though their interest in me came from a good place, it was hard to bear. In order to cope with the burden I saw a therapist, and she told me to find one good thing every day and focus on that, to hold it tight to my chest in moments of panic and be grateful. Gratitude would save the day every time.

The idea of leaving Spain and Santiago stirs that same panic inside me, erupting out of nowhere and rising towards me like a dusk tide, so I grab hold of my gratitude. What I’ve experienced with this man is something I will always cherish. Even if leaving him is going to be so much harder than I’d anticipated.

And as for Santiago? Will he think of me when this ends? Or simply move on to the next woman who catches his eye? Ice chips through me and, like a glutton for punishment, I hear myself ask, ‘I suppose you’ll have forgotten all about me by nightfall?’

His features are mocking, reminding me of the first time we met. He is such a contradiction; we are a contradiction. I feel simultaneously closer to him than I ever have another soul, but at the same time he’s a constant enigma.

‘You think you’re so forgettable? You’re the only princess I’ve ever slept with.’

I don’t know what I want him to say; not that. ‘Still just another woman in a long line of women.’

‘And that bothers you?’

I feel trapped, and I don’t even know why. I’m not sure why I brought this up, nor why I sound as though he’s betrayed me in some way. We both knew what this was. And we both know why our relationship can never go beyond this. I have expectations on me, expectations I’ve carried all my life—how I’ll live my life, who I’ll spend it with. Marriage to a prince, children...sensible, traditional. A casual fling with a man like this would be a disgrace; my parents raised me to respect my duties, to honour the requirements of my role. This is way outside of that. But it’s okay, because it’s temporary, and no one will ever find out. That’s the way it has to be.

So why does it feel like I want more from him? Some kind of pledge that I mean something, when I know I don’t...

‘I have never lied to you about my past,’ he says quietly, pressing a finger to my chin, angling my face to his. Until that moment, I hadn’t realised I’d been avoiding his eyes.

‘I know that.’ I brush aside his comment.

‘Sex is a wonderful experience to share with someone.’ His voice caresses me as his words turn my heart to ice. ‘I’ve enjoyed sharing it with you. I will always feel honoured to have been your first.’

But not my last. The words he hasn’t spoken hammer through me, and I feel physically ill. Out of nowhere, a desperate sense of nausea assails me. The idea of another man ever making love to me makes my heart twist painfully.

‘And, after I’m gone, I’ll see photos of you in the press, with all the women you share this experience with.’ Despite my best intentions, the words are hollowed out. Bitterness is recognisable in the clipped remark.

‘And I will see photos of your wedding,’ he reminds me, but it’s simply a response rather than a complaint. His words are robbed of emotion, flat, spoken with the calm delivery of someone simply making a point.

‘Yes, my wedding,’ I murmur throatily, trying to remind myself of the importance of my engagement, the wedding my parents planned for something I’ve always accepted as a necessity. ‘I wonder if I’ll feel differently about Heydar now.’

Santiago’s eyes narrow, his lips tight as he waits for me to elaborate.

‘I’ve never felt anything for him before, but maybe that’s because I had no experience with men. Perhaps it will be different now that I understand things more. Maybe.’

I truly wonder if this is the case, but even as I say the words I’m aware I’m seeking to provoke a reaction from Santiago. I want to make him jealous because I am jealous. I’m jealous of him and his freedom, and I’m jealous as hell of the women who’ll come after me. The women who will get to kiss him and make love to him and feel like the centre of his universe. I want to freeze time and hold on to this moment, never letting the world intrude, pushing reality away for ever more.

‘You will find out when you are married. I hope the gamble pays off.’

I lift my shoulder in a slight shrug. ‘I’ll find out tonight, actually.’

His face remains the same, but his eyes darken, and they bore into me with the intensity of a jet engine.

‘At the state dinner,’ I explain. ‘Heydar’s on the guest list.’

‘I see.’

I can’t discern jealousy. It’s clear that he doesn’t like the idea but, at the same time, it might just be the whole concept of an arranged marriage he’s opposed to. I don’t know. Frustration gnaws through me.

‘And so your hope is that, now you are sexually awakened, you’ll desire this man you’ve agreed to marry?’

‘I didn’t agree.’

His smirk is mocking. ‘You intend to go through with it, do you not?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Then you have agreed.’

‘I just haven’t gone against my parents’ wishes,’ I say. ‘It’s a nuanced difference.’

His response is curt, the words whipping the edges of the room. ‘That results in the same thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what if you feel nothing for him tonight?’

‘It won’t make any difference.’

His eyes flash to mine.

‘What?’ I demand, wondering at the fire in my belly. ‘What does it matter?’

‘It doesn’t,’ he insists, but his voice is not mute of emotion now. I hear disapproval in every syllable, and something else too—something a lot like anger.

‘Then why are you reacting like this? Why are you cross with me?’

His features show contempt. I shiver.

‘What if you see him tonight and suddenly find there is chemistry between the two of you, querida?’

I don’t know what he wants me to say. The idea disgusts me. I know that I likely won’t feel anything more for Heydar that I have before. I know I won’t feel anything for any man that equates to what I’ve shared with Santiago. I tilt my face away from his, looking towards the window.

‘Then I guess that’s good,’ I lie, mumbling the words.

He curses in his native tongue, and I jerk my face back to his, surprised by the outburst.

‘You would actually go from my bed to his?’

‘Hang on a second—you’re the one who was just extolling the virtues of sex and sharing sex with different partners.’

‘And you’re the one who is seeing her fiancé tonight, while naked beneath me.’

‘He’s not my fiancé,’ I contradict.

‘That is semantics,’ he dismisses. ‘You intend to marry the man. You’re seeing him tonight and hoping that you feel attracted to him.’

‘And what? You’re jealous?’

‘No,’ he denies swiftly.

My breath is coming in little fits. I move my head to the side in an attempt to find sanity, then look back at him. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest...’

‘Yes, you did.’ His eyes challenge mine, so I find it hard to breathe. Guilt and shame at my childish behaviour heat my cheeks.

‘I just...wish I felt for him what I do for you. That would be far more convenient,’ I correct quietly.

‘Because he is a suitable husband?’ Santiago responds in a tone that is so quiet it roars.

My heart stammers. We stare at each other, the air between us sparking with the power of a thousand lightning bolts.

‘Yes,’ I say eventually. ‘Because he will be my husband.’

His nostrils flare as he expels a breath. ‘Tell me, Princesa, what about this man makes him suitable?’

‘I... Everything.’

‘By your own admission, you hardly know him.’

‘I know enough.’

His eyes narrow. ‘He is royal; is that your sole criterion?’

His vehemence surprises me. But hadn’t I goaded him to this? Hadn’t I wanted to make him jealous? It was a petty manoeuvre, to push him to reveal some kind of feeling for me—even a dark one, like envy.

‘Forget I brought it up,’ I say with the appearance of calm, remembering that I am a princess and I have been taught not to lose my temper. Or at least not to show that I’m losing it.

He shifts his body weight, one hand caressing my cheek. ‘Do you want me to say I hate the idea?’

I blink my eyes closed, pleasure briefly feathering my heart.

‘I do,’ he concedes after a beat. ‘I’m a regular, red-blooded man. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have some reservations about a woman I’m sleeping with moving on so quickly. Is that what you want to hear?’

Not even close. He’s not jealous, he’s possessive, driven by ego—there’s a vital difference there.

‘That seems like a double standard,’ I say unevenly.

He presses a finger to my lips. ‘In all this time, you are the only one who has brought others into this. You talk about the women I’ve slept with and the man you will marry. You say to me that you hope our relationship will make you more likely to desire him and you ask about the women I will see when you return to Marlsdoven. There are realities beyond what we share, but I am not the one making us face them.’

I flinch at his summary of the situation. Everything is so messy, and I hate mess.

‘We have to face them, though,’ I say simply, my throat thick. ‘I’m marrying Heydar. Not tonight, not tomorrow, but in a few months, after my coronation. And I will never be able to see you again.’

He wouldn’t want to see me again anyway. If he did he’d fight for me, of that I’m certain. Santiago is not the kind of man to lose anything or anyone he values. I mean nothing to him, and, the sooner I accept that deep in my heart, the better. It will never hurt less, but at least the knowledge will save me from making a fool of myself.

A muscle jerks at the base of his jaw, and then he kisses me hard, his lips claiming mine. It’s as though he can’t find the words to respond to me, so he’s seeking to reply bodily, tormenting me with a desire that’s eating me alive.

His kiss stirs something deep in my chest. A reality I probably already know. A sharp, dangerous knowledge that I don’t want to keep hold of. I push it away resolutely, returning his kiss with all the desperation I feel—a desperation born from the fact I am leaving Spain within hours and, for the good of everyone, can never see this man again.

As pleasure floods my body, reality breaks my heart.